


Heart Like a Kick Drum

by codswallop



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Hand Jobs, Heartbeat Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-27
Updated: 2012-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-30 04:37:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/327801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codswallop/pseuds/codswallop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I want to hear what your heart sounds like while you're having an orgasm." An extended NC-17 cut from the <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/148376">Five Times Sherlock Listened to John's Heartbeat...</a> though you don't have to have read it to get the gist of this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heart Like a Kick Drum

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the anon who prompted this at sherlockbbc_fic and gave me license to indulge my heart-listening kink some more! <3

John lies down on Sherlock’s bed, amused and compliant, stretched out with his hands behind his head. “Right, have at me, then.”

“Shirt off,” Sherlock directs, warming the diaphragm of the stethoscope against his palm the way he’s seen John do. “No, everything off, in fact.”

“All right.” John sheds his clothes, quickly and efficiently, and resumes the same position, more or less, though he gets under the covers this time. Modesty, or the chill of the room? Doesn’t matter. Sherlock sits on the bed next to him. He adjusts the earpieces in his ears, draws down the duvet a bit, places the chestpiece of the stethoscope three fingers below John’s left nipple, and closes his eyes, the better to shut out all extraneous sources of information.

For the longest time he doesn’t touch John except with the diaphragm and bell of the instrument, moving it gravely from place to place as if trying to determine the exact biological epicenter of John H. Watson. He’s soon lost in the ebb and flow, the thrum and throb of air and fluid. So much data. Where to begin?

“I’m going to fall asleep in another minute,” John murmurs, his voice strangely nasal and muffled in Sherlock’s ears.

“Shh.” Sherlock pulls the duvet down a little more and rests the flat of his free hand against John’s belly, which rises and falls. Warm, soft. He skims his palm down an inch lower and notes the corresponding rise in heart rate. John shivers, and Sherlock opens his eyes and pushes the cover all the way off him to investigate. Moves the stethoscope down to John’s abdomen, which provides a whole new array of internal noises--fascinating, but not as satisfying as the metronomic monotony of heartbeat and breath.

Sherlock’s hand is on John’s pelvic bone now, tracing lightly back and forth along the crease at the top of his thigh, and John's entire midsection is tense and trembling. Aroused? Cold? It should be easier to tell. He’s half-hard, his erection brushing at the backs of Sherlock’s fingers, but there’s gooseflesh rising on his stomach and chest. Sherlock glances up at John’s face and finds his eyes shut, his chin tipped toward the ceiling in an expression of surrender.

“Budge up,” Sherlock says, getting up, and climbs into the bed, arranging things so that he’s sitting propped against the headboard with arms and legs wrapped around John from behind. Stethoscope pressed to John’s chest, face buried in his neck.

“Mmm,” John says. “Much nicer.” 

“You don’t like clinicism,” Sherlock concludes. It would make sense. The available data support the hypothesis.

“It’s complicated.” John breathes, in and out, slow, relaxing. “I don’t mind. I like _you._ Touch me?” he suggests, opening his legs and guiding Sherlock’s hand down between them. “Yes. Oh. Sherlock.”

Sherlock likes, very much, the sound of his own name resonating inside John’s chest cavity. He strokes, squeezing lightly, and shifts his attention to the task of making John feel good, which is much more selfish than it sounds. John’s pleasure is pleasurable to him, John’s excitement is exciting, and altogether the act of bringing him off is much more stimulating than solitary masturbation has ever been. 

John’s cock is heavy and hot now, surging eagerly into the tightness of Sherlock’s hand as he works the foreskin up and down, and the sounds in John’s chest are beginning to quicken. There’s no one-to-one correspondence of touch and sound, just a general speeding up: harsh inhalations, heart rate steadily increasing. Sherlock tries to keep everything constant so that he can linger in this state for as long as possible, but there’s some invisible momentum going on in John’s brain that brings him closer and closer to the edge. 

Sherlock can tell when John is nearing orgasm because of the noises he makes, involuntary little cries and gasps that would sound like pain if Sherlock didn’t know better. He tries to loosen his grasp on John’s erection a little, staving off the inevitable, but John grabs his hand again and squeezes it around himself and comes into Sherlock’s fist with a high-pitched drawn-out groan. His heart rate is going wild; listening to it amplified is like being trapped in a hurricane, or under a waterfall, pounding on all sides--some dangerous-seeming force of nature hurtling along at top speed.

At last John relaxes in his arms with a shaky sigh, and Sherlock realises that part of the double-thud he’s hearing is his own heartbeat in counterpoint, fainter and slower than John’s but still rapid enough to keep pace. Can he hear himself _through_ John’s chest? Surely not. He ought to be measuring how long it takes John’s pulse to return to its normal resting rate, but he’s distracted; he loses count. 

“Happy now?” John says at last, still panting, laughing a little, craning his neck to look round at Sherlock. “Here, give me that.” He takes the stethoscope from Sherlock’s ears, gently, and sets it aside. “We’re both sticky. Let me get up and get a--”

“No,” Sherlock says, hanging onto him. “Not yet.” Is he happy now? He isn’t sure. _Shattered_ , he thinks, _terrified, overwhelmed_ , because whatever it is he’s feeling is much too big for his own chest and surely not small enough to be contained in as innocent a word as _happy_. 

The world outside of John Watson sounds strange and disconcertingly quiet. Is John still waiting for an answer? Sherlock puts his hand on John’s heart to reassure himself that it’s still doing its work in there.

“You can have it back in a minute,” John promises. “It is yours, in fact. Are you all right? You’re smiling. Okay. Good. We’ll just...be sticky, for now, then; that’s fine,” he says, and stays where he is for a while longer, until Sherlock is ready to let him go.


End file.
